


Walk the Line

by holyfant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cocaine, Consent Issues, Cunnilingus, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 10:57:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3065267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyfant/pseuds/holyfant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Now will you let me do a line off your stomach?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walk the Line

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'ed and written in a mad rush, so feel free to point out typos. Inspired by a nonnie's headcanon on the rant meme.

Janine had wanted to go first, and now she was _wriggling_.

 

“Hold still,” Sherlock said, half-irritated, and scooted up the bed to put his knees on either side of her thighs.

 

Janine immediately put her hands on his hips, slid them over the fabric of his trousers and started pulling on his zip. “Ohhhh,” she sang, and giggled. “If you wanted to be on top, you only had to _ask_.”

 

“Stop,” he said sternly, and swatted her fingers away with the hand that wasn't holding the small plastic bag of cocaine. “I'm going to spill it if you're not careful.”

 

“Oh, now that _would_ be a shame,” she said, and stopped fiddling, but still lay underneath him grinning up at him like the cat that got the cream. “Go on, then,” she said after a moment, in which he just looked down at her. “This was your idea, I'm all up for it, so... chop chop.”

 

“It wasn't my idea to do it _off off you_ ,” he said snippily.

 

“No, but that's because you don't have the imagination. Come on.” She unbuttoned the shirt she was wearing – annoyingly, it was his, the purple one – and pulled it open. Her breasts were uncovered, spilling down the sides of her ribcage a little, the dark nipples already drawing themselves up in taut circles from the coke coursing through her system. She was wearing white knickers, uncomplicated. “Here, you can choose where you want it.” Her smile was slow. Lying there like that, she reminded him a little of Irene, but – without some of the sharpness.

 

For some reason, his mouth was dry. “Your throat,” he said, not sure where the thought had come from.

 

Without questioning it, she tilted her chin up, pressing her head back into the pillow so her throat formed a nearly straight line with her chest. Now that she couldn't see him, he allowed himself to smile at the way she complied so easily.

 

He took the bag of cocaine, opened it and carefully tipped the powder out of one corner of it over Janine's skin, down her throat between her collarbones. It wasn't the neatest line he'd ever done, but then the line of Janine's body wasn't exactly straight, and he... he had to admit it was nice to look at, the way her breath moved the coke slightly. He'd never done this with anyone else before, and it was... well, it wasn't unpleasant.

 

Janine, seeming to sense some of these thoughts, started to laugh a little without sound, her body vibrating.

 

“Careful, you'll make it spill,” he hissed, and leaned in.

 

“Come on, Sherl, I'm dying here,” Janine said hoarsely.

 

Sherlock took the five pound note she'd used earlier and rolled it up into a straw. With the ease of old habit kicking in, he snorted the line off her skin in two goes, quickly and efficiently. He straightened up, nostrils starting to burn as he sniffed the final bits of powder up, heart racing in anticipation. Janine immediately relaxed, and turned onto her side to watch him. Her pupils were dilated, he noticed – the drugs, arousal, maybe both.

 

“All right?” she asked.

 

He sniffed more, his nasal canal tingling. “Hm.”

 

“Hey.” She poked him with a finger, but he forgot to be irritated with her, because he could feel the coke hitting his blood stream, travelling to his brain. He could name all of the things happening in his body right now, but the beautiful thing was: with each passing second, it became less and less important to do so. The focus of his thoughts began to tighten, to contract. As he sat there, he could feel himself swelling – full and powerful.

 

“Yes,” he said to her, and even smiled. “I'm fine.”

 

“Good.” She licked her lips. Easy, obvious, he thought vaguely, but discarded it just as fast. He closed his eyes. “Then maybe... if you're up for it...”

 

“I don't think that's on the table right now,” he hummed with his eyes closed, intensely enjoying the way the coke vibrated through his veins. He'd – god – he'd _missed_ this, the way the drugs made something expand inside of him that was utterly strong and sure, pushing everything dark and small and uncertain out of him, past the boundaries of his skin. He made a breathy sound of contentment without meaning to. When he opened his eyes, Janine was smirking.

 

“No? We'll see how you feel in a minute,” she said.

 

“No,” Sherlock said, too quickly, and he kicked himself. “I mean, I don't –”

 

“Oh, I _know_ , Sherl,” Janine said, and she smiled at him. The smile was devious. There was something knowing and powerful about her that surprised him – the way she was splayed out next to him, smudged with coke, her breasts exposed, he wouldn't expect her to be in control, but she _was_. “I _know_ , don't you worry.” She raised a hand, brought it to his face and trailed her fingers over his cheek. “But there must be some things,” she purred, “that you _do_ want to try, am I wrong?”

 

He looked at her. He wanted to say no for a moment, but then didn't. He could feel the speed with which his blood was being pumped through his veins, and without reason, his mouth formed itself into a smile. The edges of his thoughts were sharpening – _Magnussen_ , he thought. And also: _Janine_.

 

Janine tilted her head. Her eyes were dark, the pupils wide. He didn't... he supposed she was beautiful, yes. Conventionally attractive, certainly, and confident. There was a small moment in which John's voice in his head started to say “But you _don't –_ ” and more as a way to shut him up than anything else, Sherlock surged forward and pressed his mouth to Janine's throat, licking the spot where he'd snorted the line off her. She made a small, startled sound that changed into a hum of contentment. He moved down, darting his tongue into the dip between her collarbones. He felt the urge to laugh, then, really laugh. He stifled it, but couldn't help his mouth forming into a smile against her skin.

 

A hand settled on his hair. “Hm, there you are,” Janine said, but quietly, and he made a soft sound in response without thinking about it. She pulled her body closer to his, digging her fingers deeper into his curls, and hooked a leg over his hip. That she was so nearly naked while he was fully dressed made him shiver.

 

“What do you,” she began, slow and low, and then let out a little squeak when he experimentally closed his teeth hard around one of the ridges of her collarbone. “Shite, Sherlock, no,” she said, and pulled his head back by his curls rather roughly. He made an involuntary sound at it, and there was a surge of heat to his crotch. When he refocused on her face, she was smiling, and for some reason, he didn't mind. “Not like that,” she said. “Want me to help?”

 

He considered it. His mind felt vibrating, fast, sleek. Of course, he had to keep her happy, and she looked happy this way, almost naked, her hand tight on his head. The thought was only barely finished when she tugged carefully on his curls. He sucked in a breath, and she grinned.

 

“Like that, do you? Who'd've thought?”

 

“Help would be.. appreciated,” he said, and the response from his cock was real, a rush of warmth that usually didn't feel quite as _there_ as it did now.

 

“All right,” she said. “No biting, to start off. I mean, biting can be fun. But that may be for a more advanced lesson.”

 

Sherlock scoffed. “I'm not –” he began, but Janine grinned and grabbed his chin.

 

“Oh, I _believe_ you, Sherl! But it's been a while, hasn't it?”

 

“Hm,” he said, shook her hand off his face, and then said: “I want to do another one.”

 

“Off my arse, this time?” She laughed out loud at his face. “Kidding, you sod! Do it however the hell you like.”

 

He rolled his eyes at her, and then prepared himself another line of coke on the bedside table, using Janine's creditcard. Magnussen had given it to her, he realised, and smiled a little at the thought.

 

When he turned towards Janine again, fingers still rubbing at his nose, she was watching him with her head resting on her hand. His eyes were drawn to the soft spills of her breasts, the hard points of her nipples, the generous curve of her hip. Not very much like Irene, like this. “I'd like to do one off your stomach,” she said, dreamily. “But you won't let me, will you?”

 

“No,” he said.

 

“Pity.”

 

“Maybe later.” He frowned at himself, unsure where exactly that had come from. He had an erection, he noticed rather detachedly, and wanted to laugh. A second later he realised he was, and Janine was too. Her eyeliner was smudged; she looked sloppy and beautiful. His blood was singing, leaping.

 

“Come here,” she said, and he did, crawling across the bed on his knees towards her. He dipped his head down and kissed her on the mouth. It was easy to be less careful now than he had been before – the coke made everything clearer, less fraught. She held onto his lapel and tugged him down more, opening her mouth into the kiss. It was wet and pleasant. When he pulled back and settled himself on his elbows, she giggled a little. “Getting better.” She glanced down towards his crotch. “Glad to see you're enjoying yourself.” She slid a hand down over his stomach and cupped him through his trousers. “It's nice to finally get acquainted. _Hel-lo_.”

 

She gave his cock a squeeze – Sherlock swallowed, a warm shiver shooting up his spine.

 

“You're good at ignoring your body, aren't you?” Janine said, and squeezed again.

 

“Usually, yes,” Sherlock managed.

 

“That can't be healthy.”

 

“I've –” _Squeeze._ “– managed to survive so far.”

 

She smiled without showing her teeth. “Loosen up a little, Sherl. You still feel like a live wire.”

 

He wondered fleetingly what the coke did for her – did it also tighten the edges of her thinking, blot out details, focus experience? What was it like for an ordinary mind to get sharpened? She looked more or less the same as usual; less composed, though, and the twinkle in her eye was a little brighter. She was blushing. Arousal made red blots appear in her neck, running down to her bare breasts. He liked them, the irregular shape of them. On an impulse he ducked his head and licked at them with a broad tongue, up, down.

 

She giggled. “I'm not an ice lolly,” she said, but he ignored her and moved down to her breasts, giving an experimental lick to one of her nipples. It was stiff – from the cocaine, he knew. He licked it again.

 

“Suck it,” she said, putting her hand on his head. He complied and closed his mouth around it, carefully sucking. It hardened more in his mouth, and that was interesting and surprisingly gratifying. From the way Janine was tightening her hand in his hair, she was clearly sensitive here; he used a hand to cup her other breast, squeezed it, and dragged the pad of his thumb over its nipple.

 

Janine made a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and moan. “Yeah,” she said. “That's it.”

 

He copied himself, a little more boldly. His large hands were a good fit for her generous breasts – he was able to cup her nicely, fingers splayed over the soft skin. She arched up against him, and he dared to use his teeth a little despite her earlier comment about biting. The nip was gentle and careful – “Mmmm,” she said, “okay, that's allowed,” – and he smiled against her skin, and did it again, enjoying the little gasp she let out. Her responses seemed to be getting more genuine, less showy, quieter. He was surprised, momentarily, to realise how much he was enjoying himself. His cock was half-hard against his thigh, not too urgent to be distracting, just there enough to provide an extra edge.

 

He spent a while touching her, sussing out her responses to anything new. It was slow and rather comfortable. She was combing her fingers through his hair, working through his curls.

 

“Okay, enough,” she finally said, and tugged his head up by his hair, immediately sparking a new edge into the sensation that made him gasp a little. “How's your cock?”

 

He blinked at her. “Still there.”

 

“Idiot,” she said, and he forgot to react because she reached down and drew her fingers over his crotch again. She rubbed him with intent, and the friction of his trousers made him gasp and tip forward into her touch.

 

“I think you should go down on me,” she said, matter-of-factly, and let go of him.

 

He made a little sound of deprivation. Janine smiled.

 

“Have you?” she asked, and sat up a little. “Ever?”

 

“I – yes,” he said.

 

“Did you like it?”

 

“What I remember of it, I didn't mind.”

 

She sat up and took his face in her hands. She was smiling in that way she had that told him she found him amusing sometimes. “Did you _delete_ it?”

 

“Most of it.”

 

She giggled. “Want to try again?”

 

He looked at her. She was so easy to solve, when it came to it, so easy to discard. But she... she seemed to like his reticence, the distance he put between them. At times he suspected her of having her own agenda – a frivolous one, likely, one that wouldn't compromise him, but still motives that went beyond what she showed. The way she was looking at him now, her eyes dark and dancing, seemed to suggest this to him again.

 

“Anything for you,” he deadpanned, and she laughed freely, her breasts jiggling with it.

 

“Sherl, you're such a scream!”

 

“Let's hope so,” he said, and then, a touch more sincerely: “A little guidance.”

 

“Gladly.” With a little jerk of her head she directed him to move, and he did so, settling between her legs, which she spread further around him. His inhibitions loosened, he ran his hands up her thighs until they met the edge of her white cotton knickers.

 

He slipped the pad of an index finger under the elastic. “Do I take them off?” he asked.

 

“You don't have to,” she said, and settled back against the headboard, pulling her knees up so her thighs bracketed him. “Maybe keeping them on at first is good for a reintroduction.” She grinned at him, and swept her hair over one shoulder.

 

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her abdomen, enjoying the way the muscles under the soft flesh tensed a little at his touch. He dragged his lips over her skin, settling down more comfortably between her legs. He could smell her already, a dark, secret smell that made his cock twitch. He _did_ like women, sometimes, and he almost laughed when he imagined John finding out about this.

 

“Aren't your trousers tight?”

 

“Hm.” His erection was still there, sustained by the coke, and it was indeed getting a bit uncomfortable. He brought down a hand to undo his button and zip, and groaned involuntarily at the feeling of tightness abating. Janine giggled.

 

“There, all set,” she said, and reached out to settle a hand on his head once more – this time, a soft weight that wasn't demanding. “Start slow.”

 

He kissed her lower stomach again, getting used to the feeling, and then slid his mouth over the elastic of her knickers. A muscle in her right thigh gave a tiny spasm, and he hooked his arm around it, resting himself on the elbow. He used his other hand to draw his fingers over the crotch of her knickers, which were dark with moisture, sodden and sticky. Janine drew in a breath.

 

Sherlock felt _great_ , in a way that he hadn't in a long time. He wanted – more coke, and to taste Janine's smell, and to make her come. All of these desires were clear, strong, fulfilling every one of his thoughts. Magnussen receded – Sherlock could handle him – and Mycroft receded – Sherlock could _definitely_ handle him. John – John was far away, with his wife in his new life, and that was... it was good, it was better. What had he been worrying about, anyway?

 

Sherlock leaned forwards and kissed Janine's cunt through the fabric of her knickers. He could hear her gasp at the contact, and she pressed her pelvis forwards into his face, engulfing him in the feeling of wet fabric and the smell of her. She tasted like she smelled: full, rich. He was taken by a shiver of desire that ran down from the crown of his head to his tailbone, spreading heat. He mirrored what he'd learned from kissing her mouth, her patient lessons – lips, tongue, lips again, change the angle a little. Her thigh spasmed again under his hand, and he kneaded the muscle in response.

 

“That's – that's good,” she breathed, her fingers twitching in his hair. She nuzzled her cunt further into his face, closer, deeper. “Bit – faster,” and he did, he licked at her quicker, with more pressure, licking, kissing, nipping, and kept it up for what felt like an eternity. She was making sounds, high, breathy, whiny, soft noises. “Yes, yes,” she said.

 

“Come on,” he muttered as he drew back for just a second. Janine groaned at the loss of contact. His jaw was starting to ache, and his erection was starting to demand attention, but he refocused himself and pressed himself against Janine with renewed vigour. The soaked material of her knickers made it hard to know where to aim, and he could tell by the quivering of her muscles that he was getting _somewhere_ , but not quite where he needed to be.

 

“Sherlock,” she panted, “can you – will you please –”

 

“Yes,” he said, and lifted himself off her and sat up on his knees. A glance at her face sent a fresh jolt of arousal to his groin: her hair stuck to her forehead in sweaty tendrils, her lips were swollen, her eyes dark and dilated. He smirked at her, and she had enough breath to huff in response, but then hooked her fingers around the band of her knickers and lifted her hips to get them off. Sherlock helped, yanking them down and holding them up for so she could lift her legs out of them. He dropped them over the edge of the bed, and then leaned back in and buried his face in her cunt.

 

“Oh,” she said, “oh,” and the _texture_ of her was – she was slick and slippery, and rougher where there was hair, and soft and firm at the same time. More of her wetness got into his mouth this way, and the taste was more intense, deeper. He made a sound against her without thinking about it, and she gasped in response, arching up against him. The vibrations, he thought, and did it again.

 

“God, clit,” she was saying, “suck on my clit, come on, come on –”

 

He found it licking upward, tracing her inner labia, and he pressed his tongue against it. She groaned loadly, her cunt twitching against his face. “Yes, there,” she panted, “please, please –”

 

He struggled a little with getting his mouth in the right position to suck on it; she was so wet and slippery, and she kept moving against him, so finally he steadied her hips with a hand, trying to keep them still as he found her clit again. He carefully closed his lips around it and sucked gently, and when she groaned a “ _Fuck_ , yes,” and tightened her hand into a fist around his hair, he knew he had it. He kept it up, sometimes breaking up the pattern to dip lower again with his tongue, until she said “No, stay,” and that was what he did, then; sucked on her clit and ignored the ache in his jaw and neck, pushed forward by the sounds she was making, until she cried out and yanked hard on his hair. Her fluttering, twitching body went rigid against his mouth and she clamped his head between her thighs for a long, glorious moment of oxygen deprivation. Because he couldn't move, he kept his mouth on her through every twitch and shudder of her orgasm, locked in place to feel and taste how her cunt overflowed.

 

Finally, she dropped her hand off his head and released him. He sat up, stifling a cough and wiped a hand over the slick wetness covering his mouth and chin. He looked up at her; she was flushed, sweaty, boneless.

 

“Mmm, Sherl,” she said, “let it never be said that you're an inconsiderate lover.”

 

“I don't know,” he said, and cracked his jaw before continuing. “I don't know if that ever _has_ been said.”

 

“That was really hot,” she groaned, and then beckoned him up. He crawled up the bed and plopped down on his back next to her. For a moment, they just lay next to each other, getting their breath back. “Truly,” she said and put out a hand to trace his jaw, “an outstanding effort.” She let her hand travel down his throat, over her chest, stomach, and finally rested it over his undone trousers, where his cock responded to her touch. “Want me to return the favour?”

 

He hummed an affirmative, but then said: “But not –”

 

“Not _that_?” she filled in. “Are you sure?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You're an odd man, Sherlock Holmes,” she said, but smiled at him. “And I take it you don't want to take off your clothes, either?”

 

“I'd rather not.”

 

“Suit yourself,” she said, and got to her knees, kneeling over him. “You'll want to get your trousers down a little, though.”

 

He pushed his trousers down his thighs, supremely unselfconscious in that moment. An orgasm, he thought, and then another line of coke. That was all he needed, all he wanted. The world had downsized to those two things.

 

Janine twisted her hair into a bun with her hands. “You have any lube here?”

 

“Bottom drawer.”

 

She fumbled around it and finally resurfaced with the bottle. “Nearly empty, eh? What have you been doing, Sherlock Holmes?”

 

“I did an experiment with it, actually.”

 

She laughed, full-throated, relaxed. He enjoyed how she didn't button the shirt she was wearing, letting it hang open instead. A few hairs had escaped from her impromptu up-do. He liked the look of her breasts, full, flushed. Now, instead of it being irritating, it pleased him that she was wearing his shirt. He imagined for a moment John putting it in the wash, crinkling his nose at the smell, and chuckled. Even the thought that John wouldn't be doing their wash again – not now with Mary, probably not ever again – couldn't dampen his spirits.

 

Janine popped the cap on the bottle and squirted some into the palm of her hand, then rubbed her hands together to warm it. “Any further requests?”

 

“No teasing,” he said. “Quick pace, thumbing the glans on the upstroke.”

 

“Very particular,” she said, nodding. “I like it.”

 

She seemed satisfied with the lube and laid herself next to him on her side. On impulse, he freed the arm that was trapped between them and wrapped it around her, letting her rest her head on his shoulder.

 

“So _romantic_ ,” she said, and he could hear her grin. Before he could respond, she drew her fingers gently up his cock, from base to tip, and then folded her fingers into a loose fist around it. Half-hard, it responded immediately and started plumping up.

 

“This okay?” she asked him, her face close to his.

 

“Yes.”

 

She pressed forward and kissed his face, just next to his mouth, and then started moving her hand. He let out a breath of relief at it, at the steady increasing heat of the coke and arousal pooling in his gut.

 

“Yeah, that's it, isn't it,” she said. She upped her careful pace, going faster, sparking pleasure throughout his body. He closed his eyes and bit down on his bottom lip to stop himself from groaning.

 

“You can let it go,” she breathed, “no one's home.”

 

“Maybe,” he said, “but – _ah_ –”

 

“No but,” she said, “come on, Sherl, let loose. This the right speed?”

 

“Yes,” he said, and it was, it was perfect, she did exactly what he had asked, sliding her thumb over the head of his cock on every upstroke and lubricating him further with his own pre-come. He hummed in approval, and then for a long moment there was no sound except for the slick sounds of her hand on him.

 

Clearly, her position was a bit awkward, and after a while she lifted herself off his shoulder to rest her weight on her arm to improve her access. “Good?”

 

“Mmmyes,” he breathed, and then bit down on his lip again.

 

“No need to hold back,” she said again, and he gave in, let his mouth fall open and groaned deeply as everything changed to a higher urgency, and he could feel the first tremors of his orgasm begin deep in his gut.

 

“That's it,” she said, “ _that's it_ ,” and didn't falter, her rhythm tight and perfect. He was getting close, his balls drawing up, pleasure sparking in his nerves.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock managed to say as a warning, and then “Fuck, _J–_ ” before he degenerated into meaningless vowels as he came, hips lifting off the bed with the intensity of it, spurting into the hand Janine cupped over his cock to catch his come.

 

“That's it,” she said, and pumped him one more time, twice, three times until it was over. He dribbled another bit of come, and then his cock deflated, slipped out from between her fingers.

 

“God,” he breathed, and put a hand over his eyes, momentarily overstimulated by everything, his bedroom with her in it, the drugs in his system, the particular emptiness after a satisfying orgasm.

 

When he opened his eyes again, she sat crouched over him, holding one hand in a fist a bit awkwardly. “I saved your shirt and your bed,” she said, and smiled sunnily. “But now I'll need your bathroom for a moment.”

 

He gestured towards the glass door with a vague hand. She hopped off the bed and went into the bathroom, hips swaying, body glorious. He chuckled a little at the sight, and was taken with a post-orgasm rush of affection for her.

 

After a moment, she was back. She'd closed one button of his shirt. Curiously, he wanted to undo it again.

 

“Now will you let me do a line off your stomach?”

 

“I'm still wearing my shirt.”

 

“Oh, but that's easily remedied, Sherl.”

 

Overtaken by endorphins, he smiled. “Hm. In a minute.”

 

Janine grinned, and settled back down onto Sherlock's shoulder. “Good,” she said.

 


End file.
